


The Natural Law of Weirdness Magnetism

by TheArchaeologist



Series: Snow and Pine [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: AU, Accidental Brother Acquisition, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Brotherly Angst, Drama, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Relationships - Freeform, Gen, Gnomes, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, No Gnomes Were Hurt In The Making Of This Fic, Sibling Rivalry, Stangst, Swearing, This is set before Bill turns up, Werewolf Stan Pines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 22:25:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16819663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: It's been eight long years since Stan last saw his family.Now, he's in his car waiting out a blizzard in some random place called Gravity Falls. He’s hungry, desperate, and definitely one hundred percent human.





	The Natural Law of Weirdness Magnetism

If winter was a person, it would be a jackass.

If Stan really bothered to think about it, if he was really willing to spend his sweet time mulling the nonsense over in his head, it would be the type of jackass who had no idea what the phrase ‘overstaying your welcome’ meant. The type that would happily barge into your home, notice you were in the middle of cooking dinner, and sit down at the table like they was one of the family. 

No subtle hints, soft jabs, or blatant, “We're going to bed now” would do anything to dislodge them from their chosen path, and you just had to learn to live with the asshole until they left.

The season was like that. It drifted like a bad smell, lingering and loitering and doing nothing but causing another pain in the ass for Stan. 

Snow begins to settle in the little ledges created by the windscreen wipers, and he watches, his head resting on the seat, with muted interest.

Winter, continuing the totally unhelpful train it was so happy to ride, had caught him with his pants around his ankles this year.

He has been on the road, something he usually avoided during the colder months for obvious reasons, when the blizzard had swept in. 

Ideally, Stan should have followed the signs to the nearest town or motel and bedded down for the duration, but he had never been to this neck of the woods before, and the thought of being shut in a room in unknown surroundings made him antsy. He needed unpopulated space, escape routes, somewhere he could make a quick getaway unnoticed. Some rundown bed and breakfast with nailed down windows and an emergency exit through the kitchen wasn’t going to cut it.

Still, it was nice to see the old Stan Bad Luck was still about. God knows he had started to wonder.

Stretching, Stan yawns loudly, popping the joints of his bones and sitting up to peer out the window, his nose fogging the dirty glass.

Whoever decided snow was a good idea was as much a jackass as the season. 

Sure, it looked as fluffy as a pancake and the idea of snowmen and snowball fights seemed inviting, but it only pretended to taste of sugar. 

In reality it was biting, wriggling into even the warmest of layers, making everything damp and stinging wet. In the bad months, the months where Stan’s car wouldn’t cut it and he was forced to find shelter elsewhere, the snow would make his fingers numb, stiffening his bones and making it impossible to breathe without wiping his nose on his sleeve every ten seconds.

Ugh. Fuck winter.

A whirl of wind swept up, blowing the snow sideways and splattering it against the side of the car. The noise makes his ears twitch.

The storm wasn’t letting up.

The radio had long ago given out, dying with a final crackle of static, so there was no chance of tuning in to any local weather stations. Not that he really needed one. Any idiot could see this wasn’t going to be heading off anytime soon.

Which was kinda a problem, because, well, the thing was…

His stomach growled, and an unhappy snarl escapes him, morphing into something more pitiful.

Stan hadn't eaten in over a week.

It’s not that he can’t go without food, not at all, but if he leaves it too long, goes a bit too far in stretching things out, then it could get unpleasant. Not _deadly_ , exactly, but when The Hunger overtakes, it clouds his mind, fogging things, and if he was forced to describe it Stan would say that The Hunger was like his human side being put on the back seat for a bit, and something else being allowed to drive.

And that something else wasn’t street smart like Stan. It wouldn’t know not to cover his tracks, to make sure he wasn’t caught on camera or stalking down animals or, God forbid, people that were of importance.

Stan had too many enemies on either side of the law on his tail; to be overtaken by The Hunger now could be disastrous.

But his current options are limited at best, and the packets littering the floor offered nothing but expired crumbs and old chip powder.

What he needs to do, what he really, _really_ needs to do, was to hunt.

The snow continued to fall.

It had grown heavy in the last few moments, now nearly halfway up the tires. The heating in his car wasn’t much, but even Stan could tell that as soon as he stepped the temperature difference was going to hit him like a brick wall.

This was going to suck.

This was going to suck _hard._

With a grumble in the back of his throat, Stan pushes the door open with practiced ease, the sweeping wind instantly assaulting his nose as he clambers out, slamming the door shut behind him with an almighty bang. The loud noise echoes uncomfortably in his ears. 

He should really lock the car behind him, but that would require a shift, and shifts were a pain and would freeze his skin, so he doesn’t.

It wasn’t like there were any other idiots who would venture out into a storm like this, especially in the middle of the woods.

Stan was not often thankful for his…Condition, but of the select few positives that made it onto his ‘ _Things that don’t suck as much as the rest_ ’ list was the fact that his fur was thick, encasing him in a near decent winter coat. 

He knew a grand total of fuck-all on the beast that originally got him, but what he did know was that it was in Minnesota, for whatever that was worth, and that he could get by in the cold for longer than the average poodle. Not forever, and if he got wet then things got complicated, but for the most part he could survive a trip into the forest to hunt.

Still, didn’t mean he had to like it.

He reserves his right to complain.

Thanks to the bitter wind, all animal tracks had long since been covered over or blown away entirely, leaving next to nothing in the snow to work from. Pacing around the car, Stan mulls over his options, ears tucked back against his head as large snowflakes dance across his snout. 

He had come off the road when he realised he had nowhere to go, parking a small distance off amongst the trees, out of sight from passing cars. If he wanted, he could head back that way in the hopes that he could sniff out some old road kill on the tarmac. Pacific Northwest or Florida, deer were deer and each were more than happy than the last to fling themselves in front of cars for no goddamn reason.

But even if there was any roadkill it would be buried, meaning frozen solid and stuck to the bone, and Stan didn't know if the energy he used trying to pull apart and defrost the stupid thing would be equal to the energy he got from the food itself. 

Which means hunting, which, in turn, means tracking.

Why could there never be a trash can when he needed one? Garbage tastes a lot better in this form.

With a tired sigh Stan sticks his nose as close to the ground as he is able without directly jamming it into the snow and wades his way into the treeline, pausing to smell at the bark of a pine tree in case any scent lingers there. 

It doesn’t.

After what must be about thirty minutes of walking he decides he was right, this does suck.

After probably an hour, he begins to lose hope of finding any sign of life.

And after that, he stops trying to keep the time stuck in his head.

In the end he must walk for hours, the snow growing until it is soon reaching to just below his elbows as he silently trudges along, tail low behind him.

Time doesn’t really have any meaning to him in this form. As a human it has to, he needs know when he needs to hide away off the streets and what time the local bars close, but like this? All that really changes is what game appears as day cycles into night. 

The sky is nothing but clouds at the moment, so whether it’s late morning or afternoon Stan can’t be entirely sure, but it’s bright enough to at least tell him that it’s still day. 

Whatever time it is, his hunt is failing to meet its demand.

Most creatures with half a pea sized brain must have realised there’s no point in leaving whatever hidey hole they have curled themselves into and stayed put, because he’s finding absolutely nothing to even take a punt at. 

Hell, Stan would take some scrawny bird right about now, feathers and beak and all, just to put _something_ in his stomach. If it was any other season he must have even been tempted to go digging for worms, because at lest _they_ were reliable little buggers, even if Stan did have to go lay down for a while afterwards, trying not to throw up.

And then he stumbles.

Taken completely out of his cheerful musings, Stan’s footing fails him as he goes face first into the snow with as much grace as an elephant on a pogo stick, the cold moisture melting into his fur as a low pitched whine rumbles through his throat as he makes impact.

Fucking-a. 

Just fucking-a.

Thank you, universe, this is exactly what he needed.

He doesn’t need to look to know most of his body is now snow matted, and as he stands clumps cling to his chest in uncomfortable balls, adding extra weight which he could really do without right now. Shaking, apparently, does nothing to dislodge them. 

He’ll look forward to that uncomfortableness when he next shifts. Who needed dry clothes anyway?

With a huff, he turns to examine what he tripped on, because at least upturned roots were something to put in his stomach, at any rate.

Stan blinks.

He opens his mouth, and then closes it, blinking again.

The creature blinks back.

“Shmebulock!” It says, sitting up. The crumpled remains of a red hat wilt over its head, and its beard is grey and dirtied. 

It’s…

It’s a…

Well, it’s most certainly a thing, that much Stan is sure, but what exactly the thing _is_ he has no idea.

He’s brawn, not smarts, sue him.

The totally-real-creature-that-is-in-front-of-him-right-now gets to its feet, shaking its head, and then gapes up at Stan with wide but somewhat vacant eyes, as if _Stan_ is the weirdo in this situation.

It points at him. “Shmebulock!”

Frowning, Stan sits, ignoring the way the snow latches onto his fur and cocking his head to one side. His ears prick, curious.

They stare some more.

Apart from the vague interest that comes with smelling something new, there is nothing too out of the ordinary coming from the scent of little person. There are no signs of illness, or disease, or anything that Stan should be steering well clear from. So…

Can he eat it?

Almost embarrassed from thinking such a thing, Stan glances around. Apart from the trees, wind and snow there is nothing about, no alternatives to the food situation, no other signs of life that he could hunt down to tame The Hunger, no apparent owners of the creature.

No witnesses.

He smells the thing again, leaning down to push his nose into the thing’s stomach. It frowns at him, and bats him away with a scornful, “Shmebulock!”

Shit, is it sentient? 

Follow up question, what the hell’s a ‘Shmebulock’?

The creature begins to moodily kick at the snow around it, making sounds akin to muttering as it clears a small patch of the ground. For the first time Stan notices that it wears tiny shoes.

Damn, he can’t eat something that wears shoes, it would be immoral. Ma always said when they were little to never eat anything with shoes.

Perhaps he was remembering that wrong.

The area the thing clears doesn’t turn into grass and earth as Stan expected, but wood and lots of small twigs wound together into a kind of matting. Down the centre of the patch is a long line, slightly like a small notch, and Stan climbs his feet to examine it, ignoring the creatures protests as his large head nudges it out the way. It almost looks like a seam…

The creature stomps its foot three times, and, as a fucking seam would, the ground obediently opens up beneath them. 

With a strangled and undignified yelp Stan goes falling through the earth, landing in a sorry mess on the hard surface below, tangled limbs offering no support as his feet skid on smooth stone and sends him slipping over backwards.

And then he keeps on slipping.

Tail first.

Down a sloping tunnel.

Stan had never thought he would be wishing to have been bit by a puma before, but hot damn would those claws have been of use right now.

But he wasn’t bitten by a puma, so instead of stopping and climbing back out as he _would very much like to_ , he goes right on down the tunnel and is unceremoniously spat out the other end, landing on solid rock and moss and spinning a particularly dizzying barrel roll. 

The creature pops out after him a second later, bouncing off Stan’s head and vanishing over his back with a pained grunt.

Stars dance and twirl around him for a moment, his brain repeating the barrel roll performance in his brain a few times before slowly coming to a very appreciated halt. 

Blinking to clear his vision, Stan finds himself in some kind of underground cave, decorated with mushrooms and sparkly things embedded into the walls. The whole place gleams with an unnatural light, constant and strangely unnerving, and a wiggle of uncertainty slithers around his stomach.

Ears back, heckles raised but not yet growling, he stands, not moving more than he has to. The cave is too small for him, and the ceiling presses against this back, forcing his head low in line with his chest. 

Around his feet the creature staggers as if concussed, rubbing at a forming bruise on its cheek.

“Oh! Shmebulock!” A voice exclaims from somewhere, and Stan jumps, head whipping around to the cluster of rocks, “I totally forgot you were up there!”

The creature limps off, climbing in amongst some mushrooms, “Shmebulock…” 

There is a noticeably awkward pause.

“I don’t know what that means. Anyway!” With a clap of hands, shadows begin creep and stalk about just out of sight, darting amongst vines, emerging out of cracks like ants descending upon discarded candy. They move both on all fours and two legs, and a quiet muttering bounces off the walls.

Stan sounds a warning, forcing it from deep within his chest. His best ‘I’m big and scary so don’t mess with me’ bark which he had learned from a very friendly bulldog.

It is ignored, and in moments he is surrounded by hundreds more…Creatures.

One stands on the highest rock, and rubs at its chin as it looks Stan over like a piece of meat in a butchers shop. Its beards is brown, though if that makes it younger than the first he couldn’t honestly tell. But its eyes are sharp, intelligent.

“Very good, very good.” The brown-bearded one says, “I’m impressed. We’ll make a fortune at The Crawlspace! Hear that guys? We’ll be eating jam and pie for months!”

A cheer goes up around the cave, the little creatures raising their arms in celebrations and dancing around in happy little jigs. The cave roof scrapes at Stan’s back as be leans himself away.

“Alright, alright, settle down. Jim, be quiet!” The leader snaps, pointing at one particularly overenthusiastic thing, which pouts. “Tie it up and we’ll move out.”

Oh no, nope, that ain’t happening.

Growling deeply, Stan backs up from the crowd as it starts towards him, barring his fangs and peeling his lips up so far that his gums are on display. His stance turns determined, unmovable, wound up and ready to spring the moment one gets even remotely close.

“Oh great, another fighter.” The leader sighs, snapping its fingers like a snooty dinner guest, “Bring out the crystal!”

“Bring out the crystal, bring out the crystal, bring out the crystal…” Echoes through the crowd, and some scamper off through what Stan now realises are miniature trees that seem to be growing from the moss.

He has no idea what ‘the crystal’ is, but like hell he’s going to sit on his ass and find out, so as the leader puts its hands on its hips impatiently, Stan lunges.

“Oh my god! What the hell!”

It jumps just in time to avoid his jaws, landing with a thump on Stan’s snout. Giant, panicked eyes look up into his and tiny hands latch onto his fur as if its life depends on it.

Well, it does, in a way.

“Get the crystal!” It shrieks as Stan shakes his head violently from side to side, growling and barking, “Get it! Get it!”

More hands cling to his legs, his tail, crawling like bugs over him. Spinning as best he can in the cramped space his teeth snap, ripping hats and clothing, picking up and throwing the things into the walls. He rams himself into the miniature trees, scraping against the scratchy bark and leaves, tail thrashing as suddenly rope appears, looping around his ankles, tightening, and bringing him down.

Panting, he rolls, feet flying in the air as he yanks the things to and fro as they cling to the rope, more latching around his chest, over his stomach, around his head.

Is…Is that one barfing rainbows?

The one on his snout scurries out of range. “Bring it here! Over here!”

Shoed feet click on the hard floor, and the chanting of, “Crys-tal! Crys-tal! Crys-tal!” over and over again bounces off the walls in high pitched tones. A glow enters the cave, bright blue and misty, and before he can even blink any energy left inside Stan’s body just…Melts away, draining from him, as if someone had opened a dam from within, flooding out his reserves.

His chest heaves, his lungs taking giant gulps of air as he stares at the crystal in the leader’s hands, the thing smirking as it holds it up above his head triumphantly. 

“Oh how the tables have turned!” It declares, grinning wide enough to show teeth, its hat sat lopsided from the fight. “Tie it up, fellas!”

Stan tries to struggle, he really does try, gnashing his teeth as they descend upon him, but it’s weak, halting, and a simple push brings his snout to the floor, rope tightly locking it shut. 

He whines, and wiggles, but the rope isn’t coming off anytime soon and there is no chance of the knots untying. Whatever these creatures are, they could best any sailor, that’s for sure.

What Stan should do right now is shift, take on his human form and unleash an opposable thumbed hell. He’s broken out of enough knots to know how to free himself, blind and deaf he could still do it, but…But he _can’t_. He wants to, he honest to God wants to, but his fuel tank is empty, and there’s an ache in his bones, and his vision is beginning to go mottled grey at the edges. 

He’s just so _tired._

“Guys, please, pat yourselves on the back!” The leader is saying, though Stan’s care to listen is beginning to slip. “You can now proudly say that we gnomes brought down this mighty beast!”

Gnomes, well ain’t that embarrassing.

His eyes slip shut, and Stan does not fully regain consciousness again for a while.

Instead he drifts, briefly and absently aware that he is being dragged, and then thrown onto something that is hard and moves bumpily along. There is noise, somewhere, and something heavy and cold and _draining_ is placed on his exposed side. 

His head is lifted, and fingers prod at his fangs.

He doesn’t have the energy to put up a fuss.

The hands move from his mouth to his paws, pushing apart his toes and inspecting his claws. What is he, a used car? The urge to bite itches inside his veins, but the darkness is already dragging him back down, and voices are warbling into one huge mess that thuds like an off-tune smoke alarm inside his skull.

Stan is out before he even realises.

The next time he wakes things are noticeably different. 

He is no longer on the hard whatever it was and is instead gently laid out on a soft bedding of straw. Or hay, Stan never could work out the difference. It could be wheat for all he knew, though he supposed winter was an odd time for wheat.

He frowns inwardly.

Maybe those gnomes did a bigger number on him than he thought.

But his limbs are no longer tied together, which is a bonus, and slowly his tongue slips out to lick at his chops. 

With a heavy sigh that seems to roll around his chest, he peels back his eyelids, blinking out of sync as the world slowly bleeds back into focus.

It takes all of two seconds for his head to shoot up, ears on end, and then another ten for the spinning to stop and the nausea to settle.

He’s in a cage.

Shit.

With great effort and energy he does not have, Stan pushes himself up into a sitting position, bits of hay tangled in his fur, and peers around.

The cage is big, big enough that he could probably do a few paces in each direction, with thick metal bars all the way around. It is sat in much wider and higher room, and if he had to hazard a guess he would say that he was somewhere underground, going by the lack of windows and the odd earthy smell that leaks through the tiled floor. There is a door to the cage and a small hatch to one side, probably to slide food in. 

What really catches his attention, though, is the string that has been strung up like a small fence on poles a foot away from the cage, looping all the way around and decorated with more of those stupid crystals.

The gnomes had shared their secret. Depending on how much sense they had, it would have been for a high price.

It would explain why he is still feeling so exhausted, despite sleeping for so long, and why when he inwardly pushes for a shift, his body ignores him completely. 

To add to the fantastic time Stan is currently having, his stomach is still empty, growling at him accusingly. With a whine, he flops back down, puffing dust and hay into the air as he does so, and curls up into himself. 

Whoever brought him must have brought him for a reason, but there’s no way in hell Stan is going to make a fool out of himself by panicking. So for now he will just wallow in some self-pitying for a while, maybe adding in a few ‘woes is me’ later on to spice things up.

A door opens inside the room, and his ears twitch, but otherwise Stan remains still. His back is facing away from the approaching footsteps, and he stares without seeing at the bland wall the cage is shoved against, though leaving enough room for the string and crystals.

The steps are hesitant, quiet, and timid, as if the owner is trying not to wake the beast. Strange, for someone who just brought one, perhaps this is a servant instead, instructed by a master to tend to the new monster locked below the floors.

Or perhaps it’s a goblin. 

Hey, if he could be kidnapped by gnomes, who knows what else was lurking about?

The little hatch to the cage is opened with a shriek of metal, and something tinny is pushed inside.

At the scent of raw meat, Stan whips around, his mouth already salivating, struggling to hold back the urge to instantly pounce at the slab of deer meat that has been stuck in a bowl and slid into his confinement. His paws knead a bit at the ground, and his tail moves without consent.

Swallowing away his screaming instincts, his eyes connect to his captor.

A beat passes.

And then two.

And then two more.

“I, uh, assumed you preferred a more raw diet in comparison to you canine cousins.” Ford explains awkwardly, rubbing his hands together. Under his arm is a red notebook. Stan just stares. “The gnomes didn’t specify anything, so I made an educated guess. I can be very good at those.” He smiles, satisfied, before turning and grabbing a nearby chair, plonking himself down in it.

Clicking a pen from his pocket, he opens the large notepad and sits up straight, watching Stan expectantly.

Stan just…Stares.

What the ever flying fuck?

What the hell was this? Why the hell was _Ford_ , as in, Stanley’s brother who he hadn’t seen for _eight years_ , going around buying monsters from other monsters in the middle of the goddamn forest? 

And why the hell was he so fucking _calm_ about this? 

“Go on,” Ford says encouragingly, nodding towards the food, “It’s fine to eat, there’s nothing in it.”

Completely lacking the brainpower to even think straight let alone work out the appropriate response for a series of events such as this, Stan stands on slightly shaking legs. Ford’s eyes light up.

“Fascinating…” He whispers, scribbling something down. 

Stan whines, because _what the hell?_

If he hears him Ford doesn’t respond, watching sharply as Stan leans down and takes the deer meat in his mouth. Blood and juices ooze onto his tongue, and in a second all coherent thought is lost in favour of ‘ _food, food, food_ ’ as he scarfs it down in less than ten bites. It settles heavy in his stomach, and his tongue cleans off the stains from his lips, and then the bowl.

“Subject consumes raw meat, the hypothesis is confirmed!” With another click of his pen Ford ticks something on the page.

Good for you Poindexter, now can we please go back to the subject of ‘what the hell?’

Standing, Ford walks over, but doesn’t cross the crystal line. Now that he’s closer and the pains of hunger have been momentarily silenced, Stan takes note of his brother’s appearance.

Ford is older. It’s been eight years, he should _expect_ Ford to look older, but for some reason his brother had always remained how he appeared in high school in Stan’s head, a bit too much limb and annoying little acne. His shoulders have broadened more, filling out the stupid brown coat he wears, and his hair is a longer too, though still fairly neat. He wears the same nerd glasses, however, and has continued to speak far too formally for someone from their family.

When Stan stands up straight, in this form they are mostly equal in height, and he can’t help but wonder if it is the same when he’s human, too.

A long buried emotion squirms inside Stan’s gut, and he backs away to the other side of the cage, his tail brushing against the metal bars.

Ford just grins eagerly, grins at _him_ , and goes back to his book. The way his pen moves suggests he’s drawing, his eyes darting up and down from the page to capture Stan’s exact likeness.

Except, it’s not Stan, is it? 

Ford isn’t excited to see _him_ ; he’s overjoyed at his new pet project, his science experiment, his _thing_ to push around a poke and keep contained in a cage underground, far away from curious gazes. Ford had brought him, and intends to use him for a purpose, whatever that purpose might turn out to be.

In some odd, sickly twisted way, his own twin brother had become Stan’s jailor.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: Went back and redid this chapter, because there were some bits I didn't like. Nothing plot wise has been changed.


End file.
